Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The chill hasn't yet gone out of spring. Here in Maine this morning they're actually calling for snowflakes. The last pile of seasoned firewood on my front porch grows smaller each day, and come Sunday it's going to be May.

In other words, it's still braising season here in the Northland. Might as well get with the program and rustle up some short ribs.

Finely dice three large carrots, three celery stalks, one onion, one leek, and six garlic cloves; also measure out 1/4 cup of pine nuts.

This is just under 5 pounds of beef short ribs. Season the ribs very well with kosher salt (don't be shy) and freshly ground black pepper.

Dredge the ribs in all-purpose flour.

Cover the entire surface of a large Dutch oven in olive oil; heat the oil and brown the ribs on all sides. You may need to do this in batches; I browned two ribs at a time.

When the ribs are nicely browned remove from the oil and set aside.

Add the diced vegetables, pine nuts and a few anchovy filets (optional) to the oil and saute until softened but not browned. I also added some fresh thyme, marjoram and rosemary.

Return the ribs to the Dutch oven.

Then cover the meat with a combination of red wine and stock. I used 6 cups of homemade chicken stock here and one bottle of an inexpensive Cote du Rhone; you may not need to use this much liquid. Cover the pot and place in the oven (preheated to 350 degrees F). After around 2 hours remove the cover and continue cooking for another hour or until the meat is completely tender.

These ribs were in the oven for just over 3 hours and the meat was so soft and tender that it literally slid right off the bones. The ribs gave off a lot of fat and so I used a large spoon to scoop most of it out.

Then I set the ribs aside, added the zest of around half a lemon, and reduced the sauce a little bit because it was on the thin side. Depending on how much sauce you have, and its consistency, you may not need to reduce the sauce at all, but the lemon zest is still a good idea.

I served the short ribs over homemade pappardelle but mashed potatoes, polenta, or even risotto would work too.

If you're lucky there'll be leftovers. This stuff is always going to taste better the next night. Which in my case turned out to be in the 30-degree-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-it's-supposed-to-be-freaking-spring range.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Far from it, actually. These ravioli are filled with potato, not ricotta. The only cheese inside is a little grated Reggiano, and that's for flavor, not texture.

I know what you're thinking: Must be pretty heavy. Like pierogi maybe. Cannonball type stuff, right?

Nope. These are pretty light as ravioli go, so long as you treat the filling just right.

Start with around 2 pounds of Russett potatoes. With a fork pierce the skin in several places and bake until the flesh is thoroughly softened. It's totally cool to microwave the potatoes instead; after all, we'll only be using the flesh, not the skins. Just don't boil the potatoes, okay. Far as I'm concerned that always makes for a heavier filling.

Once the potatoes are baked allow them to cool just enough so that you can work with them without burning your fingers. Remove the skins and run the potatoes through a ricer and into a mixing bowl.

Mix in one egg, three tablespoons melted butter, 1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, a dash of nutmeg, salt (don't be shy here, okay) and pepper to taste, and enough milk to moisten the potatoes. I'd start with 1/4 cup and add from there as needed; the idea is to achieve a nice and smooth filling, but not a runny one.

For good measure stir in some extra virgin olive oil, at which point the filling should be good to go. Taste it and adjust as you see fit. You can now get right to work on making the ravioli, or refrigerate the filling until you're ready. It will last in the fridge a few days.

All that's left to do now is put the ravioli together (here's my fresh pasta dough recipe in case you need one). These pasta sheets are very thin, rolled out to the 1.5 setting on my pasta machine, which ranges from 1-10, thinnest to thickest. You can see that the filling is creamy without being runny; that's the consistency you're looking for.

To keep the ravioli from having air pockets carefully lay down the top pasta sheet with that in mind. I always begin at one end and slowly roll the top sheet down over each dollop of filling. To me that works better than lowering the entire top sheet down onto the bottom sheet at once.

One at a time start to form the ravioli; again, being careful to allow all of the air to escape.

This is how things should look. It's not the end of the world if a little air is left inside the ravioli; just do your best to keep it to a minimum.

All that's left to do now is get out your pasta cutter and cut the ravioli. As I said, the dough is thin and delicate. When you boil the ravioli (in very well-salted water, of course) they should only take around 3 minutes.

The great thing about this filling is that it goes great with most any kind of sauce you can conjure. This is a really simple sauce that I made here. I just sauteed some garlic and a little hot pepper in olive oil, then added lots of sweet butter, white wine and chopped parsely. In a couple minutes enough of the wine had reduced so that the flavor was just right. Easy peasey.

Then again, I have some leftover filling from the other night and I'll be making a small batch of the ravioli for dinner tonight. This time it'll be a Bolognese sauce, I think.

Thursday, April 7, 2016

I envy people who win. Doesn’t matter if
it’s due to hard work or no effort at all. Winning is winning.

Losing is more my speed. Always has
been. I’ve been losing really important people and things since way back. I don’t
say that in a poor-me-ain’t-I-just-too-pitiful-for-words
kind of way. It’s just a fact.

I lost something just a few days ago.
Not one of those life-altering losses like your dad or best friend or even your
most devoted dog, but a damn tough loss nonetheless.

See, I let Sinatra’s fedora get away
from me. For a lousy couple grand.

Yeah, I know. This hasn’t got a thing to
do with food. (Though the auction house in which Frank’s hat was offered did
provide a spread of cheeses and meats and even boiled shrimp to those attending
the afternoon’s “Celebrity Memorabilia” event.) I’ve got some serious demons to
exorcise here, okay. Come back next week and I promise to cook you up something
real nice.

Two friends accompanied me to the event
in Biddeford, Maine. Marc acted as wingman; he took the drive and sat next to
me as I waited for Lot # 12 to go on the block. X.Ray was back in New Jersey
doing who knows what, but he remained in constant phone contact throughout.

I knew before stepping foot in the
auction house that Frank’s hat would be a pretty close fit. I’d earlier reached
out to the Sinatra family and Frank’s daughter Nancy put her father’s hat size within
a mere 1/8th inch of my own. Others might store away or display such
an item but my plan was to wear it. Proudly.

Marc and I were shocked to discover
Frank’s fedora not behind a glass case or on a shelf shielding its felt from
the public’s reach. Rather, there it was on a plain folding table in the center
of the room next to similarly desirable artifacts: Brando’s bad-ass-black leather
motorcycle jacket, Jack Benny’s stage-used violin, a couple dozen items in all.

Marc tells me that he can’t quite
describe my expression as I approached the brown fedora, a Stetson as it
happens.

“You’ve got it bad, dude,” I heard him
say, or at least I think he did.

The Stetson was perched atop a white
foam mannequin head. Underneath was a red folder containing the item’s
provenance, in this case originating from the collection of one Joe Franklin, a
now-deceased talk-show host in New York with whom I am well familiar having
grown up there. I wanted to inspect the hat to see its size but dared not touch
it. Marc and I discussed asking one of the auction house workers to
investigate. But then a voice was heard loudly and clearly.

“You can try it on if you like.”

It was a woman standing behind a glass
display case that carried, among other things, Babe Ruth’s glove and Roy
Campanella’s face mask.

“Seriously?” I asked. “I only wanted to
see what size it is.”

“Like I said,” the woman offered in a
very pleasant manner, “you’re more than welcome to try it on.”

At this point, Marc would tell me later
that afternoon over fried chicken and drinks, my expression went positively six year’s old on Christmas morning.

I know. It looked a lot better on him.
But what was I gonna do, not show
this to you?

I knew that X.Ray, as big a fan of the
man as I, would be just as insanely thrilled by this new development, and so I
texted the picture to him right away.

“You need that hat brother,” he
responded seconds later. “You must be weak in the knees.”

I responded with a one-word profanity,
the likes of which need not be repeated here.

“If Mr. Sinatra is watching from above,”
X.Ray typed, “I think it is fair to say that he would be proud to have a man
like you own his hat.”

It’s true what they say, you know: Choose your friends wisely.

Moments later Marc and I took our seats.
The auction was about to begin. Frank’s hat would be the twelfth item on the
block. I hadn’t expected to be a player, as earlier I’d been told by the
auctioneer that prices were estimated to be much higher than I’d imagined. But
then the first few items went for a song, just a couple hundred dollars for a
hat belonging to Ray Charles, about as much for those owned by Vincent Price,
Peter Lorre, Red Skelton and Judy Garland. These prices were way below the auctioneer’s estimates.

“How much cash you got on you?” I asked
Marc reaching into my own pocket to do a count.

“I don’t know, a couple hundred,” he said.
“Are you serious? I thought we were just spectators.”

I always carry a lot of cash, way more
than that. Between Marc’s and mine, all of a sudden I was in the game.

When Mr. Sinatra’s Stetson came up for
its turn, the auctioneer sought an opening bid of $20,000. This didn’t rattle
me very much because he had sought similar openings earlier and without
success. The room remained silent. The man tried $15,000 and still nothing,
then $10,000. Finally Frank Sinatra’s fedora opened at $3,000. Still not so good
as I’d reconciled myself to go no higher than $3,500. In an instant the bid
went to $4,000, then $4,500 and then to $5,000, the winning bid and not my own.

Marc and I took our leave. It was
raining and we were hungry—and thirsty.

I texted X.Ray to let him know how
things went down.

“My condolences brother,” he typed. “You
gave it a shot and you actually got to wear the man’s hat. I bet that alone
will make the rest of your day.”